


Who's on Top?

by TheYmp



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon!Dean, Demons, Demons Are Assholes, Humor, M/M, Murder, Rating: PG13, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Ruler of Hell, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-13 16:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21497377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheYmp/pseuds/TheYmp
Summary: Battling insecurity and a compulsion to kill the help, Crowley and demon!Dean compete to see who will come out on top.
Relationships: Crowley (Supernatural)/Dean Winchester
Comments: 8
Kudos: 28





	Who's on Top?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2019 Supernatural Reversebang Challenge on LiveJournal. 
> 
> Thanks to Gotaprettymouth for the artwork prompt, brainstorming plot points, and cheering me on!

[](https://gotaprettymouth.livejournal.com/898024.html)

** _"We've howled. We've bayed. We've done extraordinary things to triplets, all of which have been massively entertaining. I will treasure our Flickr albums forever. But now it's time for us to accept what we are and go back to work" - Crowley, 10x01 Black_ **

Crowley knew how to pick his moments. Like now, for instance. He prided himself on being a demon that enjoyed a certain level of attention; he knew how to hold a room. Not for nothing did he spend an inordinate amount of time finding the right tailor and getting the perfect fit for his suits. Existence was a game and he liked to think he put on a good show; he played his part well. And when he didn't, well, 'fake it till you make it' was another lesson that had kept him in good stead.

But years in Hell suffering under Lilith's jackboot had also taught him the good sense of biding his time and knowing when it was best to run the show unnoticed from the sidelines.

And sidelined was exactly how he felt as he stood hidden in the shadows of the bar and watched Dean.

Dean, by contrast, had chosen to sit smack-bang in the middle of the bar at a table that seemed to be lit from all angles, sparkling in the light. Dean's smile glistened too, in response to the admiring glances he garnered from both men and women as they walked past. Their gazes were drawn to him like moths to flame.

"And potentially as destructive," muttered Crowley sourly. He could count himself brethren to those burned by the Winchester's fire.

"Sir?"

Crowley used every ounce of strength not to visibly start at the sudden appearance of his latest steward, a morose demon by the name of Jeeves.

"Look at them," said Crowley through gritted teeth. "At some level, they know what he is, but still they flock to him."

Jeeves gave an indifferent hum of agreement. "Indeed, sir. They do say that everyone loves a bad boy," he said in a tone that implied this wasn't an adage in which he placed much worth.

Crowley's twisted soul burned as he watched Dean's eye-crinkling smile given in response to the polite flirting of the wait staff. He turned away too soon to see how Dean let his façade drop to reveal a hollow-eyed gaze once he thought he wasn't being watched.

"Dean Winchester completes me," Crowley whispered. "And sometimes that scares me," he admitted.

"Well, that won't do now, will it," responded Jeeves. He gave a discrete cough. "I could... have him taken care of, if sir desires?"

_'Sir' desires, in fact 'sir' desires very much. Too much_, thought Crowley. _That is the whole bloody crux of the problem_. He was conscious he'd been wool-gathering. "What? No, no, nothing I can't deal with," he added hurriedly, only belatedly realizing, to his shame and mortification that he'd admitted a vulnerability to an underling. And Jeeves had been shaping up to be such a good assistant.

"If I may, sir. Your relationship puts me in mind of the antics of the Bonnie and Clyde of my youth. Each a considerable power in your own right, together you are a significant force to be reckoned with, but nonetheless driving each other to further and further extremes..."

"Urgh," interrupted Crowley, forcefully. "Not those two, _please_. It took barely a couple of years _below_ before neither of them could stand the sight of the other. Yours truly was unlucky enough to be one of those tasked with their separation, and that wasn't something I'd care to revisit or reminisce about."

"Indeed," agreed Jeeves. "As I was saying, there's a common perception that this won't end well for either of you. He's like a rabid dog, sir. At some point, you know he's going to turn on us."

Crowley's expression turned to one of thunder. "Really?" he said in his sweetest voice. As far as he was concerned, his new steward had just effectively cemented his fate.

Jeeves paled and backed away a quick couple of steps as he realized he'd overstepped the mark.

"We're demons, we're the bloody definition of _not ending well_," hissed Crowley. "Now, get out of my sight before I _end you well_, too."

Jeeves bowed low and disappeared in the blink of an eye.

Barely restraining his anger, Crowley stood in the shadows and continued to watch the object of his torment and affection like a silent sentinel.

The worst thing was that he knew there was an element of truth to his steward's words.

~#~

Dean felt caught like a bug under the too-bright lights of the bar. He could feel everyone's eyes on him. It gave him an unpleasant squirming sensation in his chest that was more than just the residual pain from the fatal stab wound inflicted by Metatron. He should never have sat in the middle of the room; his Dad would have kicked his ass back in the day for not choosing a spot with his back to a wall and a clear line of sight of all the exits. He wasn't sure what had come over him, to have made that choice, a common complaint for him these days it seemed.

_Fuck it_.

His spider senses were tingling, dialed up to eleven, and he could sense that Crowley was out there somewhere in the shadows.

_Ah, there he is, all dressed up to the nines, talking to his stuck up, jumped up, second in command_.

So much for howling at the moon. The King of Hell clearly had better and more important things to do than spending time with Dean.

_Still, the guy sure does know how to rock a suit, though_.

He sighed and averted his gaze, not wanting to be caught staring. Instead, he fiddled with his glass and watched the light play through the amber-colored whiskey within.

_Fuck it_.

He downed the drink, unmindful of the burn, but the hoped-for escape of blurred senses remained as elusive as ever. He'd built up quite a tolerance to alcohol even before he'd been reborn as a demon. Now he could just keep drinking, there apparently no longer being anyone in his life to tell him otherwise. Besides, even if there were, he probably wouldn't have listened. And why should he? He'd paid his dues. He felt like kicking back and relaxing after years of obligation and responsibility, and he was now finally free to do whatever he wanted.

_The only trouble is, I don't know what that is._

The waitress stopped at his table, and he instinctively fell back into the old patterns of a Dean Winchester full-on charm offensive. He was sure he recognized her from the other day, which means they've most likely already had sex at some point. _Old Dean_ would have known. _Old Dean_ would have cared about her wellbeing and about her as a person. _He_ would've been upfront about there being no strings attached, but also ensured they both had a good time. _This Dean_, here now, whoever he was, only cared that she was a warm body to take refuge in.

He wasn't sure if this bothered him or not, although that fact in itself filled him with a vague, attenuated feeling of disquiet.

But no matter, she'd brought him another drink and he reached out for it all too eager to chase that buzz. The arrival of others in the bar signaled the end of their conversation, which he'd barely been aware of, but his automatic responses must have been sufficient as she stroked one hand casually down his arm and smiled.

"Maybe next time you can put the handcuffs on me... if you like," she whispered in a sultry voice.

Dean forced a smile and a nod, even though he was not feeling the fun of being in charge. _It's all still just me playing a role_, he realized, _but then, the older the habit, the harder it is to break_.

Despite the paucity of his response, the waitress seemed happy; she walked off with a confident wiggle to her walk that wasn't there earlier. And if Dean turned to admire the view, then he was only human... well, okay, maybe not _quite_, but at least it proved he was still giving a passable impression of one.

~#~

Dean was sitting up in bed cleaning his guns, a task that previously had always had an unusually calming effect on him, when Crowley came bursting into the room.

"Where's Alfred?" Crowley demanded, while the menacing heavy at his side meanwhile cast a sour glare towards Dean then back at the King of Hell.

"Who?" asked Dean with a faint, disinterested frown.

"My new steward," answered Crowley impatiently. He knew a lie when he heard one, especially one so bald-faced.

"Oh, he's dead," said Dean as if discussing the weather.

Crowley sighed and rolled his eyes. "You killed my right-hand man?"

Dean froze at those words, although the muscles in his jaw worked as he ground his teeth. "I see, so you just _assumed_ that _I_ killed him?" he seethed in a cutting tone as he continued cleaning his guns.

It was this second point, rather than the blatant lie, that irritated Crowley all the more. _He's a demon, what the hell does he even need weapons for?_

Dean sighed in defeat from the force of Crowley's unimpressed stare. "Okay, so I did it. Happy now? The guy was a real creep, and he looked at me funny."

"He looked at you funny, _how?_" asked Crowley in disbelief. Alfred hadn't had a funny bone in his whole damned body.

Dean pointed at the heavy. "Like this guy," he said, glaring at the demon by Crowley's side. "You know, I've a good mind to gank him too."

"Dean, darling, you can't keep killing the minions."

"I don't see why not, they're not even loyal to you - you should hear what this one says about you behind your back."

"Why you!" cried the heavy like the stereotypical bad guy he was, while making a run for Dean.

"Oh, for the love of..." cried Crowley in irritation as he clicked his fingers, and the demonic goon exploded in a pillar of fire and smoke. "Dean, have you never heard the expression: _there's no such thing as bad publicity_?"

"Yeah, well, I still don't have to like it," Dean huffed, muttering under his breath.

Crowley paused. He snorted with amusement but managed to smother the pleased-as-punch grin that wanted to stretch across his face down to a more respectable smirk.

"That's really very sweet, darling, but _please_ don't kill any more of them," he begged.

"O-kay," grumbled Dean, turning his back and stretching out the word into an over-dramatic whine. It gave him the sound and appearance of a surly teenager and, as such, Crowley decided, was not a particularly attractive look. Even when sitting stark naked in bed and cleaning a pistol in what _surely_ must be a deliberately provocative manner.

_Only in America could a firearm be considered a valid seduction technique_, Crowley chuckled to himself with a sense of his own superiority. Clearly dismissed, he allowed himself a single longing look back over one shoulder before stalking out of the room and slamming the door shut behind him.

_Perhaps 'Guns and Ammo', or whatever it's called, publish a swimsuit edition?_

He wondered where he might get a copy.

_Purely for the pictures, of course, it's not like I'd bother reading the articles._

~#~

Crowley struggled to open the door to their room. A couple of solid shoves finally dislodged the weight of the body sprawled against it that had been blocking the way.

As he stepped over the corpse, the expression on his face turned to one of thunder. "Enough already!" he roared. "You can't keep killing my minions! I thought we'd been over this?"

He felt more like a broken record than the King of Hell these days. The damn hunter just couldn't get it through his thick, if admittedly attractive, skull.

And to make matters worse, Crowley's clever little scheme of keeping the Mark of Cain satiated by sending every underperforming demon in Dean's direction was now backfiring on him. Turns out the term 'performance appraisal' was beginning to take on even more of a reputation for spine-chilling horror in Hell than its mortal world counterpart.

The whole point had been to separate the wheat from the chaff while easing Dean's penchant for violent, sadistic murder, not killing off the all-too-rare cream of the crop too. At this rate, he was going to end up with a bunch of middle managers, 'yes' men, and a very flat hierarchical structure.

"No, _you've_ been over this," argued Dean. "_I_ wasn't listening. Besides, the guy was a dick,"

"How would you even know? You only just met him, and anyway, he was good at his job!" Crowley cried in desperation at trying to get through to Dean. It might have been true if the demon had been in post for a bit longer. It's not like he could actually remember the fellow's name. He thought it might be _Max_.

"Hey, I get things done, too," said Dean with a hurt expression and a hint of something deeper. "Or at least, I used to," he muttered too low for anyone to hear.

Crowley rolled his eyes and gnashed his teeth, although a secret part of his demon side enjoyed the argument.

Dean seemed to shiver despite himself and quick as a flash Crowley's other interests were_... er aroused..._ Crowley realized. He took a moment to collect himself.

"These guys would sooner stab you in the back than look at you," Dean argued in the meantime. "There's easily twenty demons out there who are vying for your job."

"So, you kill my new chauffeur?" Crowley laughed long and hard. "Only twenty? How insulting! Do you even know how Hell works? The trick is to keep them in line by putting them in their place, not putting them _down_!"

"Well," pouted Dean. "I just think you should be able to call on a bit more loyalty than that. I know we had our differences in the past, but you're the _King_."

"How could anyone possibly think otherwise?" answered Crowley in a moment of fancy, his chest puffing up under the focus of Dean's attention.

"But they clearly do," complained Dean, sounding hurt.

Crowley let out a deep breath, deflated. He just couldn't stay angry with Dean. He sniffed, and as he did so, his face wrinkled on noticing the sour smell in the room.

"Urgh, it stinks like a hellhound's kennel in here," he cried, twisting his nose in distaste. He threw open a window and took a deep, relieved breath of fresh air. "That's better. Have you been here in this pit, all this time?"

"Yeah, well... maybe being a demon isn't proving to be all it was cracked up to."

Crowley was stunned by the comment. Actually, it felt more like a physical slap across the face.

"I thought... well... I thought we were having some great times together, just you and me. Weren't we?"

Dean shrugged.

"What about the twins?" urged Crowley. "That was fun, wasn't it? Well, okay, strictly speaking, they're two of triplets not twins, the third of whom has thus far resisted my attempts at sliding him into debauchery like his siblings."

Dean barely acknowledged the correction. "Why do I always have to share everything? That's all I ever did growing up – although to be honest, it was often less sharing and more giving up. My whole life was spent sacrificing things I wanted, usually for Sammy's sake.

"You want to get back at him?" asked Crowley. "Is that what this is?"

"No," retorted Dean, unmindful of Crowley's deep sigh of relief. "I get that a lot of the time it was my choice. And I would do it again. But I just want something for myself."

He took a deep breath, unnecessary given his demonic status, but borne from years of habit.

"Besides, Sam's better off without me. Some loser even tried to get to him through me. I cut him off, he's a big boy now, he doesn't need me anymore and the sooner he realizes that the better."

Crowley bit his tongue but decided at the last minute that he needed to intervene. As infuriating as the boy-scout approach of the big lug might be, Sam was an integral part of who Dean was. An exasperating part that Crowley had thought could be tolerated for the sake of keeping Dean happy, but that apparently wasn't on the table either.

"Your highness?" the voice interrupted Crowley's musing. A tall, somberly dressed demon had appeared in the doorway of the room. "Excuse the intrusion, but there are matters that require your urgent attention."

"Go on, go off with _Riff Raff_, don't let me stop you," snarled Dean, still lost in his fog of self-pity. "You've obviously got more important things to take care of."

"Fine," spat Crowley in answer to both the new arrival as well as Dean.

~#~

"Given that he's a bearer of the Mark, there's much chatter in the lower orders that this makes Dean Winchester the natural heir of the Knights of Hell," intoned Jarvis, the somber demon from earlier. He continued with his dry, pedantic lecture. "The absence of any sign of the Princes of Hell, for several millennia now, only adds legitimacy to the idea that he has a better claim to the throne than you, sir. You should kill him."

"Oh, Jarvis, you have a severe lack of vision," complained Crowley. "What we need is something more... _dynastic_. Apart, either Dean or I might just manage to grasp the nettle of power, but together... well, together, I think we could build something that could last... _a thousand years!_"

He had a sudden vision of himself as Blake Carrington. _That would make Dean... Krystle? Or maybe Alexis? Yes, definitely Alexis. He'd look quite dashing in fur and shoulder pads._

"Don't get beyond yourself, sir," cautioned Jarvis. "When I was mortal, our leader had similar ambitions that never came to fruition. I fear he too started to believe his own propaganda..."

"You know, you're right," said Crowley, guiding the steward towards the entrance to Dean's room. "You go on in there and take care of it for me, won't you?" he ordered, giving Jarvis a shove into the room and slamming the door firmly shut behind him.

"Bloody Nazis," he snorted.

There was a faint cry of alarm and a sudden thud of something heavy falling to the floor from the other room.

Crowley allowed himself a small smile. _The key to a good relationship must truly be about the little things you do for one another_, he decided.

_Time for another steward_, he sighed. He paused. "That's it," he cried, overcome with sudden inspiration.

~#~

Although not truly surprised, Crowley made a show of throwing up his hands in disgust when he got back to their room and found Dean still slumped as before in the midst of a dark, foul temper.

"How have you not got up yet?" he cried. "It's a beautiful day out there; ripe for evil deeds and sly seductions."

"I'm not in the mood," Dean grunted, rolling over in bed and giving a tantalizing, if sadly accidental, flash of thigh. "Just leave me alone. Besides, you can't tell me what to do."

"No? I thought we were two wolves howling at the moon? _Besides_, I'm the King of Hell, your liege and master, and you have to do what I say," answered Crowley in a mocking tone.

"Make me," Dean snorted into his pillow.

Crowley barely repressed a shiver of excitement. "Oh, it would be my pleasure," he purred, his eyes shining. "But for now, how about we ease you into this arrangement? Keep it friendly between fiends and all that?"

He paused for effect, sensing that his bait was on the verge of being taken.

"You know what we need to raise your spirits?" he added in a contrived, matter-of-fact voice. "A competition. A wager..."

"A bet?" Dean's head popped up despite himself as his interest was piqued.

Crowley reigned in his grin of triumph. "Yes, indeed, something to get us out and... Hmm, well, you seemed unimpressed with my seduction of the triplets from the other day..."

"I thought they were twins," interrupted Dean with an eye roll. "You know, seeing as there were only two of them."

Crowley waved aside the objection. "I already explained that. Let's make it a contest of seduction! Whoever ravishes the most from now until midnight on Saturday wins."

"Why midnight?"

"Really?" groaned Crowley. "Do I have to explain? Surely it's obvious? It's all part of the brand..."

Dean shrugged. "So, what's the prize?"

Crowley grinned, his teeth and eyes feral in the light. "The winner gets to be the new King of Hell, the top in all senses of the word. The loser has to submit _utterly _and serve as loyal steward."

Dean sniffed. "Sounds like a piece of cake, just don't come sobbing to me when I win."

"Don't be so sure, Winchester," Crowley chuckled, rubbing his hands together.

~#~

"So... how's the competition going?" Crowley asked later the next day. He nodded approvingly at the sight of Dean up and about, even if it was at the cost of no longer having him lounging around naked in his bed.

He actually knew the answer to his question already. What was the point of being King of Hell if you couldn't keep tabs on everyone through a network of dark sources? Besides, it turned out that the car lot had a top of the range CCTV system.

Dean shrugged.

"Please tell me you're not going off with the _car lot harlot_, again," Crowley joked, unable to resist showing off by hinting at the depth and breadth of his knowledge.

"Don't call her that," exclaimed Dean, although he still smirked at the epithet. "She's ready, willing, and eager... and she'd sell her soul for a drink."

Crowley snorted. "What do you think got her into that mess in the first place? Really, I wouldn't touch her with _yours_. Not to mention she doesn't even have any teeth..."

Dean waggled his eyebrows.

"Oh, please! Tell me you didn't...." Crowley shuddered, teasing as he knew full well that Dean had. He'd watched the video playback _twice_. Any thoughts of jealousy he'd ruthlessly stamped down on, concentrating instead on the joy that Dean had finally emerged from his existential funk. "So this is what secondhand embarrassment feels like... I am, if nothing else, impressed with your ability to scrape the barrel."

"Any port in a storm..."

"Urgh! Enough, please," cried Crowley as Dean made to continue. "Shut up already. It's one thing to debase a mortal, but not yourself." He stopped suddenly, his jaws snapping shut to lock away the words that had suddenly, inadvertently, turned to weapons. "One person is not like another, and neither is a soul," he added, trying to fake an air of nonchalance. He gazed at Dean, hoping that the stench of desperation and lovelorn expression wasn't as obvious as it felt to him.

He cleared his throat and continued. "One cannot conquer the same summit twice. We should aim to be _conquistadors of the useless_, forever seeking out new and greater pleasures. And _you_ clearly need some sort of points system, otherwise it's frankly grim."

"If you say so," replied Dean, unimpressed. He filled a glass, almost to the brim, from a bottle of cheap whiskey and raised it in salute. "Whatever gets the job done!"

Crowley rubbed the bridge of his nose with a long groan. "I suppose I should be at least thankful that you're not drinking straight from the bottle."

"What can I say?" laughed Dean. "You're clearly having an influence on me."

_And you are going to be the death of me_, thought Crowley ruefully as he forced a chuckle.

~#~

At Crowley's insistence, they'd gone out to a more upscale bar in the next city over. It was too loud, too dark and there were too many people. Dean wondered when he'd become such a stay-at-home.

_Was it age, or was it his new demonic nature?_

He'd tried doing this, the bar thing, with Crowley before. Then as now, it merely served to emphasize their differences. Drink made a marvelous metaphor: Crowley was only happy if he could get his hands on a decent whiskey whereas Dean would just go with whatever rotgut got the job done. And that was the problem, there was no _job_ anymore, not for something like him. He just felt so damned directionless. He snorted: _damned and directionless._

Dean knew he needed a firm hand, his father would have had a field day with his recent behavior. Kinda like the last time Dean felt like this, back when Sam had gone to Stanford. His dad had come down on him like a ton of bricks, but it had been what had been needed to bring him back on the straight and narrow. Crowley's cutting him way too much slack, and he was self-aware enough to know that this was why he was playing up and pushing at boundaries. It's just that it really stuck in his craw that if anyone should be at Crowley's side, it should be _him_, not some stuck-up, backstabber who was pretending that they were loyal and willing to be of service.

It doesn't help that Crowley is just way too bossy for his own good, although, truth be told, Dean does kind of like it.

_Sheesh, talk about daddy issues_. If the thought sent something primal shooting through Dean's body, he wasn't going to admit to it. Pink panties aside, he had never considered himself kinky, but hey, _demon now_.

Looked like being a demon was all kinds of eye-opening...

Talking of which, he was suddenly very aware of how many of the club's patrons were also of the black-eyed variety.

Crowley's made too many enemies, Dean realized. Plus, he gets too quickly frustrated by their short-term folly and stupidity. In return, they reward his disdain with a lack of respect, no allegiance, and no loyalty, and should he try taking his eyes off them, they'd be trying to stab him in the back. Often with his own dagger.

Dean can't remember all the times he's ganked a demon. But, to counterbalance this, as Alistair's star pupil, he had been personally responsible for far more than his fair share of dark turnings himself.

And here came one now, an odd, gangly, skinny dude, lurching towards him across the half-empty dance floor completely out of time with the music.

"Hello there, Mr. Dean, sir."

"Do I know you?"

"You probably don't remember me, but you were my torturer in Hell."

"Ah, I'm sorry about that... I guess..."

"Oh, no, thank you, sir. You made me the demon I am today. Flayed me good and proper, you did, and I like to think it shows it my approach to demoning. Not like these new demons coming through. Some of us still remember the old ways and want to keep the ancient traditions alive."

"Well, er... good for you," replied Dean at a loss for what to say. "Carry on!"

"Thank you, sir," said the demon, bowing and scraping as he backed away.

"You are a terrible demon," Crowley admonished as he sidled up to Dean and handed him a fresh drink.

"Hey!" cried Dean.

"But better than me. We're _all_ terrible demons," admitted Crowley. "You were _supposed_ to kill him."

"I think that might actually be considered as doing him a favor," laughed Dean. "I guess I'm too repressed. My idea of being bad still revolves around junk food, whiskey chasers, and banging waitresses."

"You're good at killing."

Dean shrugged. "I was _always_ good at killing," he agreed. "What more is anyone expecting?"

Crowley laughed, his eyes sparkling in the dim light of the club. "What the bloody hell are we doing here?"

"Making ourselves and each other miserable?" asked Dean.

Crowley stopped and gave a wry smile. "Fancy joining forces and having a go at making someone else miserable instead?"

Dean chuckled. "Lead on."

~#~

As Dean closed the room door behind them, the clock struck midnight.

"I believe we have a bet due," he said. He made a quick mental count. "I make it _eight_ for me."

"How sweet," Crowley mocked. "One for each shift at next door's diner, plus twice for the odd homeless lady."

"She's not homeless..."

"Of course not, she just happens to push all her worldly belongings around in a _shopping cart_... But regardless, I'm not sure that do-overs count and, let's face it, _none_ of them were actually much of a challenge for you."

"Okay, ya snob, seven it is," Dean chuckled, crossing his arms. "So, how well did you do?"

"Well, there was that Republican who's running for re-election, that must surely be worth a handful of points..."

"Points, but _eww_," Dean grimaced.

"_And_ his aide," Crowley continued, not deigning the comment with a response. "Oh, and I finally got that last triplet into bed. Surely, I must get bonus points for collecting the full set?

"I'll allow it," conceded Dean. He totted up the running total and frowned. "We seemed to be on a tie."

Crowley raised his eyebrows and took a quick breath. _In for a penny_, he thought, _it's now or never and hope for the best..._

"Aren't you forgetting something?" prompted Crowley, touched at how quickly Dean's features flushed ruddy crimson at mentally relieving the recent memory.

"I didn't... I didn't think that would count," stammered Dean, rubbing the back of his neck and still blushing furiously.

Crowley made a moue of disappointment. "Do you really think it doesn't count?" he asked quietly, holding his breath in suspense.

Dean shook his head forcefully and reached out to hold Crowley by the shoulders. "No, that _definitely_ counted."

Crowley smiled. He was all about wielding power - it's why he'd thought he'd wanted to be King of Hell in the first place. But that job had its own unpleasant responsibilities, and he'd never really got the hang of the whole tormenting souls thing. _What was the point?_ Certainly being the focus of so much malign hatred hadn't helped with the feelings of inadequacy from which he'd always suffered – a fear of not measuring up. In life, as well as the bedroom. But, almost giddy with anticipation, he suspected that might all soon be a thing of the past.

"So, that means you won."

Dean looked stunned. "You can't be serious?"

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "When have you ever known me to be less than serious about a _deal_?"

"That's insane," declared Dean. "I can't be the... the..."

"King of Hell?" said Crowley. "Don't worry, it's as easy as pie, and I'll be right behind you every step of the way."

~#~

"There's still one other considerable matter to take care of," said Crowley as he came up for air from their celebrations.

"Huh?" replied Dean, still dazed and reeling by the proceedings.

"The gigantor who's currently not in the room..." Crowley prompted.

"I thought I could cut him from my life," said Dean, sobering quickly. "But even now, whatever this is, I still need him with me."

"The ex-demon-blood addict and boy who would be king? Sure, let's invite him along, what could possibly go wrong?" said Crowley, his voice light with gentle sarcasm.

"You think it is the wrong decision, then?" asked Dean, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth. "You don't think he'll accept _this_... us... _me_?"

Crowley shook his head. _Still he puts everything else before himself. He'll be a wonderful King of Hell_. _Under my firm, constant guidance, of course._

"It's all about knowing who you really are, underneath, and embracing it," he said. These were not just scheming words, but hard truths that life had taught him down the ages. "Celebrate it. Maybe pick and choose who you show the real you to, if it'll make your life less complicated, but make sure you're living it for you and not for them."

"I'll just throw Sam a few lines about being disappointed that he's not accepting of my _alternative lifestyle_, and you just watch how quickly he'll change his tune," Dean said with a smirk. "Because, that big, beautiful, freak of a brother of mine is all about not making others feel like freaks too."

"Who are you, and what have you done with Dean Winchester ?" purred Crowley, with an admiring look painted across his face.

Dean frowned, assuming that he was being teased.

Crowley recognized his mistake immediately and held up his hands in surrender. "No, it's an absolutely spot-on analysis of his psyche, honestly. I know you don't believe me, but you're _just_ as perceptive as your brother." It bothered him that he needed to spell out what to him seemed such apparent statements, and yet the man still didn't believe him.

Dean snorted.

"No, I mean it," argued Crowley. "It's a sign of what a great tactician you are. It's one of the things I love about you, but you hide it well, so forgive me I feel like belaboring the point from time to time."

Dean froze, a smile blooming on his face.

"What?" asked Crowley, not understanding what he'd said.

Dean reached out a hesitant hand, running it across Crowley's cheek. "You're not so bad yourself, you know."

Crowley looked false-scandalized. "You take that back immediately," he joked. A moment later, with a faint pleased look he murmured. "Okay, maybe don't take _that_ back... just... maybe _not_ in front of the servants."

"Hardly likely, since I seem to have killed them all," said Dean, pulling them both back down on to the bed. "I _do_ have some good ideas, don't I?"

"Oh boy, yes. That you do," agreed Crowley as wholeheartedly as his black, wizened, devious heart would allow. Choosing his moment carefully, he flipped them over.

Dean fell back on the bed with his arms stretched out above his head with a contented, satisfied sigh. "You're not sore you lost to me?"

Crowley's lips twitched into the barest of smiles as he considered that someone would be feeling sore later and that it wouldn't be him. He leaned down to place a surprisingly gentle kiss on Dean's lips. "Let's just say, I've come to appreciate the reality of my true position..."

**THE END**

(;,;)


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